


The Hole in the Water

by DragonTail



Series: Transformers: RID [9]
Category: Transformers (Unicron Trilogy), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:29:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonTail/pseuds/DragonTail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jazz has a problem. Owing to recent events, the former black ops specialist is the only active member of the Autobot RID team - making him the only being capable of defending Earth's inhabitants from both another suspicious meteorite strike and a <i>blitzkrieg</i> assault on an off-shore oil rig. Back at base, the RID commander has problems of his own: Ultra Magnus must decide the fates of the traitorous beast-former, Snarl, and his unwitting child accomplice, Koji Jones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written by Falcadore.

How many meteors struck Earth, every year?

Jazz switched his headlights to low-beam and pondered his own question. It couldn’t be that many. Meteors fell out of the sky and struck planetary bodies. It was simple; it was elementary studies in gravity. There was no call to attach portent or prophecy to these normal occurrences, nor to view them as phenomena.

He knew human culture better than any other Autobot and had a reasonable empathy for the way carbon-based brains operated. But even though he could pick up the vibe on any street in the world, he couldn’t grasp what so fascinated humans about astronomy and its bastard love child, astrology. Not to mention the science fiction films he’d watched online, with Koji, in his disguise as “Daniel”. Moon men, pod people, body snatchers… the list just went on.

Jazz laughed as he imagined a human trying to cope with Cybertron, where rocks and comets dropped like rain. They’d be convinced, every single cycle, that the end of the world was nigh.

His jerry-rigged sensor package – a last-minute gift from Downshift – beeped pleasantly. The impact crater was devoid of harmful radiation, toxins, spores and scraplets. Jazz transformed and slid down through the dust and rock, moving as quickly as he dared. Yes, he needed to investigate the crater before any human authorities arrived, but that didn’t mean he had to break a leg on the way.

Fallen celestial bodies weren’t usually part of the RID job description. Flame Convoy had changed that. Given the level of devastation wrought on the downtown area… given the horrendous damage the demented dragon-bot had inflicted… given the fact Ultra Magnus had almost died… the Autobots had drafted a new list of priorities.

Flame Convoy and Scorponok had arrived in a meteor; that meant other threats could do the same. Scattorshot had reconfigured the base’s sensors to track floating rocks and, should one drop, it was the nearest RID unit’s primary task to change course and check it out.

Thus, Jazz was picking his way through the remains of a farming area, and making his way toward the rock-on-the-spot.

The sensor package, now gripped in his left hand, pinged and blooped. He had no idea what that meant. The noise didn’t _sound_ dangerous. Maybe he should have asked for a manual, rather than just taking Downshift’s mumbled, disconnected instructions as gospel. Shivering slightly, he pressed on.

Loose gravel and soft loam greeted him at the bottom of the crater; his large black feet sunk a few inches. He walked toward the meteor, making a squelching noise as he moved. This must have been a particular fertile field, given the depth of good topsoil around him. Some farmer was going to check his back forty in the morning and be really, _really_ ticked off.

The dropped rock was shaped like a teardrop, its sharp base pointed toward Jazz. He made his way around it, taking careful note of its pockmarked, patchwork surface. Something about it seemed oddly familiar. He could have sworn that, in some places, the dents and scrapes looked like writing. Jazz reached the front of the meteor and did a double-take – there was a single, luminous eye set into the surface!

Twin beams erupted from orb and tracked up and down the length of his chassis. Jazz yelped, frozen to the spot by shock. The yellow lights swept across chrome, down bodywork and around tyres with an almost studious gaze, then vanished as suddenly as they had appeared.

A moment passed. Hairline fissures appeared in the steel and it cracked open, like an egg or cocoon, and began to _transform_. Plates shifted and warped, taking on colour as they did… swatches of deep blue, racing red and brilliant white. The large mass of the meteor seemed to fold in on itself and reduce, compacting into a solid, lithe body much the size of Jazz’s own.

Not _much_ the size of Jazz… _identical_ to the size of Jazz. Solid steel turned to liquid metal, gained colour and forged itself into a clone of the awestruck Autobot spy. Suddenly, human beliefs didn’t seem so odd or quaint… instead, they were all too terrifying. Body snatchers and pod people especially!

He looked into his own eyes, obscured by his own visor, set into his own head. The clone’s red-and-blue body mirrored his ebony frame; its arm shield and flamethrower at the ready much as his were. It flashed him a wry grin.

“Boo,” it yelled.

Freaked out by the experience, Jazz promptly fell over. His brand-new identical twin started laughing. The mech doubled over, holding its midsection as if it feared its cogs would drop out onto the muddy soil.

“Mech, you should see your face,” it whooped. “It’s just like mine, except I’m laughing and you’re dazzled.” The twin sighed loudly. “I’d forgotten how much I’d missed you, Crosswise… well, how much I missed doing stuff like _that_ to you, anyway.”

Regaining control of his jaw hinge, Jazz closed his mouth and frowned. There was no mistaking that voice. “Don’t be tellin’ me… Wars?” he gasped.

His reflection bowed theatrically. “Once I was known as such, dear sir,” he announced, clearly enjoying himself, “but inspiration – provided by your kind self – conspired to promote a change in designation as well as form. With a nod to the past, a glimpse at the future, and a roll of the dice, you may call me… Smokescreen.”

\-----

“With all that’s happened to us, these last few vorns, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Ultra Magnus slumped a little further into his command chair. On the view screen, a tiny image of Optimus Prime frowned with concern.

“I’m a little surprised by your reaction, brother,” the Autobot commander said quietly. “Granted, we’ve both done it before but, notwithstanding, it’s not every day a mech comes back from the dead.”

Magnus chewed his metal lip. “I know, and I am grateful,” he said. “It’s just… well, knowing you and Rodimus were inside my head, seeing my emotional turmoil first-hand is… _disarming_.”

Optimus chuckled. “Try thinking of it another way,” he suggested. “You allowed your brother and his protégé to see a side of you that’s long remained hidden from the world. A side of you that does nothing but strengthen our already high opinions.”

He tapped the side of his helm in a faint salute. “Magnus, you have come very far from the days of Mini-cons in battle suits. Yet the elements that make you indispensable, courageous and inventive have become only more prominent. More powerful. You are ever more a mech in whom I am happy to place my trust.”

Magnus grinned wryly. “That’s your way of giving me a pep talk prior to my making this difficult decision, isn’t it?”

Optimus grimaced as Magnus reflected. He’d survived his ordeal at the hands of Flame Convoy; better still, he’d emerged mentally and emotionally stronger. Once, he’d given into his self-doubt and let it paralyse him. Then he’d submerged it, denied its existence and allowed his confidence to morph into arrogance. Now he sought to balance the extremes of his personality and blend the “black and white”, witnessed by Optimus and Rodimus, into shades of innovative, improvisational grey.

His team, meanwhile, had taken serious damage. The Autobots who’d been trapped in the Global Space Bridge were shaken – haunted, in the case of Downshift – and yet to fully recover. Jazz was the only RID Unit active; the rest were in various states or repair, bunkered down in the CR chambers. But, for now, the team was not Magnus’ concern. He had more immediate problems.

The first was Koji. Magnus had taken the human child into their world, their stronghold, and been stabbed in the back. Granted the boy had been fooled, but that was no excuse; his presence had become a danger. So too had Snarl – the white wolf of Animatros. Snarl had sought not only to escape RID custody, he’d tried to kill Magnus in front of the humans. His help in defeating Flame Convoy had been invaluable, true, but that scarcely made up for his duplicity.

Now… while his mechs healed… Magnus had to decide the fate of two traitors.

“You’re in an unusual position,” Optimus said at last, “for an Autobot, anyway. It’s been a long time since we had a traitor. I’ve long believed that to be the benefit of an army made of volunteers, not conscripts.”

He sighed loudly. “I wish I could offer you some sage advice, Magnus… even something from the depths of the Matrix. But there is no wisdom I can impart to you. Our only traitor was Wheeljack, and we learned of him vorns after the fact. Metroplex died at the hands of his traitor – hardly a good object lesson – and mechs feared Scavenger too much to cross him. Sentinel Prime was, in a sense, betrayed by Megatron but not in a manner applicable to your problem. As for the Decepticon essences within our sacred life force… _don’t ask._ ”

The Earthforce commander pressed fingertips into his optics. “Terrific,” he groaned. “Is there any reason I’m always the one blazing the trail?”

“What about Vector Prime?” Optimus asked. “He may know more. Our resident soothsayer is under Grimlock’s command. It would be simple to…”

“Thanks,” Magnus said firmly, cutting him off, “but no thanks. You were right the first time – the situation is unusual and requires a new solution. Not a retread.”

Optimus smiled. “You’re going to improvise.”

Magnus returned the grin. “Don’t I always?”

\-----

“Protoform transportation? You’re kiddin’, right?”

Jazz and Smokescreen sped down the highway, headed for the hidden Earthforce base. The spy had insisted on taking the lead… it was unnerving enough to check his rear scanners and see a mirror-image, let alone to follow one into the night.

“No joke, just the latest tech,” Smokescreen replied. “Red Alert figured, with all the interstellar travel we do these days, there had to be a better way to get around. He mixed a little CR technology, a dash of protoform know-how and a pinch of mass-conversion to turn us into… well, bullets.”

“Like Override’s ship,” Jazz offered.

“Sort of. Converted back to protoforms, we stay gooey during flight. We solidify after impact, scan the surrounds and take on the nearest compatible form. The extra mass built into the ‘comet’ lets us scale up to bigger frames, if necessary.”

“So you get to upgrade from Spychanger to deluxe robot without all the painful operations,” Jazz frowned.

“What can I say?” Smokescreen shrugged. “You showed your hand too early. Patience is a virtue, Crosswise.”

“That’s _Jazz_.”

“Right.”

The covert agent rankled. His transformation from mini-bot to full-sized mech had come about as a result of two things: personal request, and promotion to the core Autobot team. It had also been agonising. But centuries of black ops had left him disillusioned; he’d wanted something more out of life than assassinating a target from 5km, or cutting fuel hoses while a mech was cycled off-line. His new name was a symbol of that.

Wars, however, seemed to have done it on a whim. More accurately, he’d done it to get a rise out of Jazz.

His speciality was diversionary tactics – battlefield misdirection. Wars delighted in tricking Decepticons, leading them into ambushes or surprising them with hideously designed booby-traps. “They’ve been in the wars,” he’d laugh, tapping the controls of his latest death trap.

He also found pleasure in gambling, and in pranking his fellow Spychangers in ever-more embarrassing ways. Jazz had once spent the better part of a cycle cleaning disruption chaff out of his quarters – chaff that spread _everywhere_ when he’d switched on the cooling system. Still, he’d made out better than Ox… that force field over his waste disposal unit had been nasty.

Now Wars was on Earth, apparently at Grimlock’s command. Jazz imagined the cruel grin on the Dinobot’s face. How he would have delighted in sending an upgraded Spychanger – and practical joker – as back up for the RIDs. _A little help, indeed._

Copying Jazz’s chassis and alt mode was Wars’ idea of a joke. Taking on a new name was another poke at his former commanding officer – and appropriating a dead Autobot’s moniker was especially tasteless. Wars… Smokescreen… was going to be a problem.

“Unit Four, call it in.”

Jazz winced. “Receiving, Unit One,” he replied, mentally cursing the inter-Autobot radio. “Sorry, Big Bot. Got kinda distracted by the new arrival.”

“Anything you want to tell me, soldier?”

“Well, we got worries of a different kind with this cat. The ‘comet’ was my old ‘friend’ Wars, though he’s callin’ himself Smokescreen these days.”

Magnus was silent for a moment. “Grimlock’s reinforcements,” he muttered.

“Oh yeah.”

When Magnus spoke again, his voice was all business. “Get the newbie acquainted. Believe it or not, the Terrorcons are on the move already. A garbled report has come in – two ‘metal beasts’ attacking an oil refinery south of your location.”

“You comin’ in on this one?”

“Negative – I have to clean house. It’s just the two of you. Battle protocol initiated.”

Magnus’ tone brooked no argument. “Battle protocol initiated,” Jazz acknowledged with a sigh. “RID Units Four and… Eight… en route.”

Another voice cut in. “Greetings, Ultra Magnus,” Smokescreen said cheerfully. “I’m reporting for duty. Sorry about my arrival, but that’s how we roll these days.”

“Nothing to forgive,” Magnus replied. “Welcome aboard. I need to speak with you, once you’re back, but for now you have a mission. Our goal is to stop the Terrorcons without drawing attention to ourselves… and we’ve not done too well with the second part of that.”

“So I’m given to understand,” Smokescreen said. Was Jazz imagining things, or was his former soldier being… nice? “It’s why I raised my hand for this duty. My speciality could be quite useful to you over the coming days.”

“Appreciated,” Magnus said. Jazz could hear the smile in his voice. “Like I said, we’ll talk later. Make all speed for the refinery and report when you’re on site.”

The transmission ended; the Autobots drove on silently. Smokescreen indicated, changed lanes and accelerated around Jazz, taking the lead.

“You don’t know where you’re going,” Jazz admonished.

“Co-ordinates are co-ordinates,” Smokescreen said, “and we can’t waste time worrying about who’s in front.” He accelerated, taking full advantage of the Bugatti’s aerodynamics, and was gone.

 _Reckless hot head._ Jazz scanned the area. It was the middle of the night, and no humans were around. Normally he’d favour stealth over speed, but the situation was urgent. Like the Autobots, the Terrorcons had been scarred by their time inside the Global Space Bridge. If they needed Energon, it meant their forces were depleted. This could be a chance to capture two more beasties and stamp out this mini-war.

The key hanging from his ignition twisted to the right. His nose lowered and his spoiler spread – not a transformation, just a feature of the best automotive design drafted by humans. The needle of his speedometer leaped to 398mph and he raced off, quickly catching up to Smokescreen.

“Stay as close behind me as you can,” the red-and-blue car called. “I’m running a jamming suite that makes us invisible to speed cameras and police radar guns. If you stay inside the field, Magnus won’t have to pay our fines.”

Jazz boggled at that one. “You know about speed cameras?”

“Please,” Smokescreen tutted. “You think I play any game without first knowing all the cards?”

\-----

Ultra Magnus walked along the corridor as quietly as he could. Given his size and weight, that wasn’t too quietly at all – but he still made the effort. Other Autobots… other commanders… might not have concerned themselves but his anger could not overwhelm his compassion. Such was his nature.

The corridor narrowed very quickly, its ceiling sloping dramatically toward its floor. This section of Fortress Maximus was designed for the comfort and safety of human occupants; as such it denied access to Transformers as large as himself. Armourhide or Scattorshot could have squeezed in, however, and there existed controls to “raise the roof” in an emergency. This was not such an occasion, and so Magnus stooped down and pressed his face into the slight opening.

“Koji,” he called. “Are you awake?”

“Yeah,” grumbled a small voice. “Can’t sleep. I guess I’m worried you’re going to fire me off into space or something.”

“Why would I bother,” Magnus asked, “when a mind-wipe is much simpler?”

He heard a strangled gulp.

“I was joking,” he said. “Come on out here… it’s time for us to talk.”

A full minute passed. The nine-year-old plodded into the main corridor, his face set defiantly and his dark brown hair sticking out in all directions. Koji wore his daytime clothes, despite the late hour, and his eyes were ringed with dark blotches. The boy was obviously tired but too upset… ashamed… to sleep.

“Want to walk with me?” Magnus asked.

“Like I have a choice,” the boy sighed.

They set off, back toward the central elevator shaft. Koji took 20 steps to Magnus’ one; progress was slow but the Autobot didn’t mind. In fact, he didn’t speak for the first hundred metres.

“I can understand why you’re upset,” Magnus said.

“And I can understand why _you’re_ upset,” Koji said. “I screwed up worse than ever. I didn’t listen to Mom, I just plunged on ahead believing what I wanted to, not paying attention to things around me.”

“You truly are your father’s son.”

“So I keep hearing.”

Magnus paused and leaned against the wall. “Kicker made mistakes as well, Koji,” he said. Now he’s a father, he might like to portray himself as infallible, but the Autobots landed in plenty of tight situations because he and the Mini-cons tore off on some crazy adventure. Tow-Line used to call him ‘the walking target’.”

Koji looked up thoughtfully. “This isn’t just about me being in trouble, then?”

“Good insight,” Magnus nodded. “Yes, I’m angry about what you’ve done, and I’m disappointed in you. I feel you’ve betrayed my trust, and the trust of all the Autobots. I won’t go so far as to say you’ve tarnished our good relations with your family but, if I’m being honest…”

“And you are.”

“… then I have to admit to feeling dented by all of this. However, I’d be foolish to lay the blame solely on your shoulders, given the external factors.”

They started walking again, once more in silence. They had boarded the elevator and activated it, rising up toward the observation deck, before Koji spoke.

“External factors?”

“Autobots, as a rule, aren’t an expansionist race,” Magnus began. “It’s not in our programming to seek out new worlds and new civilisations. We’ve done a lot of it, these past 14 years, but by accident more than design. When it has happened, there’s almost an expectation we’ll ‘pal around’ with the natives, especially the younger members of the indigenous race.

“It’s a state of mind with which I’ve never agreed. At first, I opposed it on a pragmatic level. How could we justify emotional involvement with a race we might not be able to save from the Decepticons? Then I came to love Earth and its people – though I knew them only from a distance – and realised emotional involvement was a powerful weapon against tyranny. It’s what differentiates us from the Decepticons, far more than any symbol or brand.

“Still, I didn’t approve of our ties with Kicker and Misha. Not because I didn’t like them, but because their involvement with us intensified the danger in which they found themselves. Mini-cons are one thing; battalions of Autobots and Decepticons are far more severe. I sought to have them removed from our first base, for their own sakes, and was over-ruled by the rest of the inner circle. Optimus felt your parents ‘kept us honest’ while Grimlock, despite his protests, actually liked your father.”

“But you and my Dad fought, didn’t you?” Koji asked, already knowing the answer. “We left the base when I was just a baby… before Energon became public knowledge. Just before she was kidnapped, Mom told me there was a big argument.”

Magnus nodded. “His tolerance for me had run out, just as mine had for him,” he confirmed. “Things had been brewing for a long time beforehand. Since he was a teenager, really. I acted out of concern for his safety… for the safety of all of you… but Kicker couldn’t see it that way.”

“Or wouldn’t,” Koji countered. “I’m get the feeling you and Dad got along much the same way as Dad and I did.”

“That I don’t know,” Magnus harrumphed, “and wouldn’t like to speculate on.”

The elevator reached the observation deck.

“Back to the point: I like humans, I like interacting with humans, but I don’t like having humans around Autobots because you could get killed. And, as much as your parents kept Optimus ‘honest’, they lied to you. That’s part of all this, Koji – you don’t have the coping abilities to deal with our war. You were born into it, but not raised within it. Your mother told you to trust us and your instincts screamed the opposite. You can’t be faulted for that – but it’s not compatible with our world.

“I’m saying I don’t blame you for throwing in with Snarl. Nor can I forgive you. There’ll be no punishment for your actions, Koji, but I won’t permit them to happen again. Too many lives depend on the decisions we make in the coming days.”

He walked over to one of the large chairs and sat down, then offered his hand to Koji. The boy climbed onto his palm and was lifted up to the window ledge, where he perched. “So what does that mean for me?” he asked.

Magnus looked out the window. Beyond the mountain range… beyond the time-bending effects of the base… was an indistinct blur. That was the “real world”, one second out of phase with the world the Autobots had created for themselves. For Transformers it was an oasis; for the rest of the world, a mirage.

“I’ve had one of my friends look into local records,” Magnus murmured. “Nightbeat is something of a detective, and can unearth links that are too obscure for the rest of us. He found Sally Jones… your father’s sister.”

Koji’s eyes were like saucers.

“You’re going home,” Magnus said. “Back to your own kind.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Co-written by Falcadore.

“There are many, _many_ reasons why this is a bad idea.”

Ultra Magnus kept one sensor on the wet road and turned the other inward, toward the human sitting in his cab. Koji was slumped in the passenger seat, ignoring the storm outside and focusing sullenly on the carpeted interior.

To make conversation easier, Magnus activated his holo-driver. A creation of solid light, the replica human could interact with others of its “kind”, provided it strayed no more than 2km from Magnus’ physical form. It had some corporeality, allowing it to open doors or move small objects. The technology was a fantastic advantage for the Autobots but came with drawbacks… any pain or injury “suffered” by the duplicate was felt, tenfold, by the Transformer.

Magnus’ avatar appeared as a roughly handsome man in his early 50s, with weathered skin and close-cropped, silver hair that would have once been blond. A Vandyke beard was wrapped around a square jaw, all set under piercing gunmetal blue eyes. The false man put its hands on Magnus’ steering wheel and pretended to drive through the sodden, blustery conditions.

“Care to share one or two of those bad ideas?” it asked in his voice.

Koji glared at the holo-man, quite willing to accept it as Magnus. “I’m explaining this to you? Geez, I’m in more trouble than I thought,” he sneered. “The Terrorcons have already kidnapped my folks – don’t you think they’ll come after me next? Especially if they realise I know the location of your ultra-super-secret base?”

The duplicate frowned. “You know, I hadn’t realised that,” Magnus said. “It never crossed my mind. I’d better turn myself around and head right back to the base, because you said so.” He accelerated. “This is me not turning around, by the way.”

“I noticed,” Koji snapped.

“You’re missing the point, soldier,” Magnus said. He took a right-hand turn smoothly and headed off the freeway. “On a purely military level, you’re less of a security risk outside the base than you are inside it. Left alone, there’s always the possibility you’ll make another poor Snarl-related decision… or wander down to the detention levels to chat with Divebomb. _Again._ ”

The boy gulped. Perhaps he’d thought he’d gotten away with that one.

“Continuing this rather ruthless line of thought, it would be something of a boon to us if you _did_ get kidnapped. We could track you back to the Terrorcons’ hide out and rescue you and your parents in one mission. You have great value as bait.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in, and spared a glance at his surrounds. The Autobots passed through this neighbourhood so often, many of the humans assumed their “drivers” lived nearby. Magnus idly wondered what they made of so many odd, customised vehicles being kept in such a small area.

“Of course, that’s a very Decepticon way of thinking,” he said at last, “and I’m not prone to those sort of tactics. The fact of the matter is you’ve still been attending school and been out in public, all without being attacked by the Terrorcons. As far as they know, you’ve never been in Autobot care. You’re obviously beneath Predacon’s notice, meaning he wanted your parents for their technical know-how and not because of their connection to the war.”

Koji was muttering. “Fine, be logical,” he huffed.

Magnus stifled a laugh. “Open my glove compartment.”

Still scowling, the nine-year-old slipped out of his seatbelt and twisted a latch on the dashboard. The white compartment was empty save for a small, circular badge. Koji took it out and held it on the flat of his palm. An insignia was carved on its face; an image of a blue crystal set inside a twin-handled, silver vessel.

“Dad’s belt buckle,” Koji breathed, remembering the battle he’d witnessed in the science centre, so many weeks before.

“Something more, actually, but that’s for another discussion,” Magnus replied. “The device is a transmitter. Push it twice to initiate battle protocol. Push it three times for a real emergency. And if you don’t tap it at least once a day, and make contact with the base, Scattorshot will call you to ask why.”

“Like the hatch on the island,” Koji smirked.

“I don’t watch TV,” Magnus quipped, proving that he actually did. The boy understood at once and, for the first time in an hour, smiled.

“It’s all right, Koji,” he soothed. “Fortress Maximus is no place for a human child – your father was right about that much. But that doesn’t mean we’re going to forget you. Of that you can be certain. If you need us… even just to talk… we’re there.”

Koji’s face darkened. “Even Jazz?”

“If he wants to,” Magnus answered. Truthfully, he had no idea how the special ops mech now felt about the human. Jazz had been Koji’s biggest booster, even choosing to stay in contact, as the boy grew up, through subterfuge. He’d found it hard, upon his arrival at Fortress Maximus, to take Koji’s attitude and emotional reticence. News of his betrayal had dealt the already-injured spy an emotional blow. Magnus had intended for Jazz to return the boy to his family, allowing the RID commander to investigate the meteorite impact; circumstances had dictated otherwise.

“I wish I’d spoken to him,” Koji whispered. “You know, before we left.”

“You’ll see him again,” Magnus said, concealing his doubt. If Jazz had but one talent, it was the ability to vanish when he did not want to be found.

“Where’d he go, anyway?” the boy asked.

The Autobot paused before answering; trying to decide if passing on the knowledge would cause his team any further problems. “I asked him to look into something out west,” he said, “but had to divert him to something more urgent.”

\-----

“There are many, _many_ reasons why that should have been a bad idea.”

Despite his grumbling, Jazz was impressed. He’d suggested they avoid the Global Space Bridge, given the recent troubles, and make their way to the oil rig by normal human-built roads. It would be a longer journey, of course, but safer.

Smokescreen had insisted. “For one, I want to see the GSB,” he said, sounding like an eager tourist. “Plus, there’s the tactical advantage. First rule of being a gunner: shoot where they’re _going_ to be. The ‘cons will expect you to stick to the roads. The GSB is the last place they’ll think to look for you – we Cybertronians aren’t much for travelling through disputed territories.”

Jazz had grinned wryly. “Cybertronians save for the Spychangers,” he’d quipped.

“Now you’re talking,” Smokescreen had replied, matching his expression.

Amazingly, they’d passed through the rainbow-hued tunnels without incident. At first, Jazz had put that down to a similar reluctance on the part of the Terrorcons. Coming across two sets of unfamiliar tracks had put paid to that idea. Their good fortune was due to their lack of readiness – the Terrorcons had already passed this way, using the GSB to reach the oil rig undetected. The Transwarp portal was still open and pointed right at the facility.

Now they stood – Jazz grousing, Smokescreen pleasantly awestruck – on the lip of an exit tunnel, looking out over the ocean. The cities of the west coast were no more than twinkling lights in the distance, nearly invisible because of the driving on-shore rain. The ocean stretched out in all directions; the oil rig loomed in the foreground.

“Woo,” Smokescreen breathed. “Nice struts.”

Jazz fished the sensor package out of his sub-space pocket and peered at its reading. “Huh,” he muttered. “Ambient heat, but no sign ‘o Terrorcons. Not nowhere. That’s strange… Magnus said there was something big goin’ down, up there. Maybe they’ve already rock, rolled and moved on.”

Smokescreen raised an optic ridge.

“What?” Jazz demanded.

“Do you _always_ talk like that?” the red-and-blue Bugatti asked.

“How I talk’s how I talk,” he replied. “Don’t be hatin’ on me for that.”

“Sweet Primus,” Smokescreen sighed. “You’re a case and a half, Crosswise.”

“ _Jazz._ And what’cha talking ‘bout?”

The diversionary tactician shook his head and tutted. “Look at you, all shiny and reformatted,” he began. “You’re bigger, you’re stronger. The mouth plate is gone; everyone can see your winning smile. Armed to the teeth, instead of armed for the kill. You put any other mech in that frame, they’d have as much stealth capability as Demolishor would tip-toeing through crystals suspended in methane.

“The only reason you can still do your job is because of who you are inside – the skills that won’t go away, no matter how much you apparently want them to. And you _want_ them to. Badly. Too much killing, eh? Lived in the dark so long you forgot what the light was like? So you’re here atoning, making amends, forging yourself a new life.”

He reached across and tapped Jazz’s bumper. “Hoping that if you replace the parts enough times, you’ll have an entirely new car. Sad to say, Jazz, that it doesn’t work that way. The engine… the Spark… is still the same.”

Jazz opened his mouth to speak; Smokescreen turned and walked back into the tunnel. “Now that I’ve counted the cards, time to play the game,” he called over his shoulder.

He transformed, spun in place and revved his engine. He changed his Bugatti shape, twisting it until it was almost a bullet. A split-second later, Smokescreen shot past Jazz and out over the lip of the tunnel, soaring across the 300m of ocean separating them from the rig. Three-quarters of the way through his arc, he transformed again; taking on robot mode in just enough time to snag a strut with his right hand.

“You’re freaking insane,” Jazz yelled.

“Maybe,” Smokescreen replied breathlessly, “but having raised the stakes, it’s now your bet.”

Fuming, Jazz transformed and copied his “twin’s” manoeuvre. Thanks to an identical engine and frame, he pulled it off with ease. Just to be different, he snatched a rung with his left hand, flipped up over himself and grabbed a higher strut.

“I’ll see you,” he gasped, “and raise.”

Infuriatingly, Smokescreen beamed like a happy child and started hauling himself up. As he caught up to, then passed, Jazz, the vents rising from his sides began to spew bilious clouds of thick, black smoke. The spy watched as the gaseous blobs adhered to the metalwork of the rig, but parted around the rapidly ascending Autobots.

“Smart-smoke,” his colleague quipped. “Basic nanites. Programmed to cling to… and fog up… anything without an Autobrand. The least-fancy thing in my arsenal.”

“An’ in this weather, any sailors upstairs’ll think it’s the inky blackness of night and not a fire below decks. Hopefully.”

“Distraction,” Smokescreen nodded. “It’s why I’m here, no? Besides, if the Terrorcons have gone, we’re better off not giving the locals more to worry about.”

The climb was easy; Jazz barely taxed a servo. The sensor rig, magnetically clamped to his forearm, pinged. It had detected a massive increase in temperature. It was the sort of rapid heat exchange you would expect from an explosion.

A second later, the struts to which they clung wobbled, warped and shrieked. Smokescreen and Jazz pushed their shields through the gaps and activated them, using their force-field projectors to create pinions. Their feet were knocked from precarious perches, their hands knocked loose, by the rampant undulations… but they hung on.

“Like a giant tuning fork,” Jazz groused over the din.

The vibrations started to settle, yet still passed through their metalwork. By silent agreement, the twins ignored it and started upward again – their paces quickened by concern. The first tiny strains of human screams had reached their audio sensors; screams for which they had no rational explanation.

Concealed, the duo vaulted over the edge of the platform and drew their flame throwers. Amazingly, Jazz found the smog parted around his optics, no matter which way he turned his head. He took in the scene around him… and immediately wished the smoke was blinding him.

In front of them, in utter defiance of sensor readings, stood murder carved in steel. Crumplezone had torn a watchtower from its moorings and was using it, like a cudgel, to flatten passing humans. One of his legs was on fire, but he seemed to neither notice nor care. At his flank, Wheeljack swept his batons with horrific results. He, too, ignored the flames licking at his broad, black legs. Above them both the Mini-con, Windshear, fired lasers at anything that moved.

“How…” Jazz was at a loss for words.

“Doesn’t matter,” Smokescreen growled, forcing aside his surprise. “Cut the cards.”

He leapt out of the cloud, shoulder rockets already firing. Jazz followed, adding his own flames to the maelstrom. There was no time to distract the humans, to disguise their presence – not if they wanted to save the lives of everyone aboard.

\-----

They passed through a series of intersections without speaking. Magnus turned toward an industrial area; Koji peered through the slick windscreen at a set of distant lights.

“A truck stop?” he asked in withering tones.

“Made sense to me,” Magnus’ duplicate grinned. “For obvious reasons.”

“Cute,” Koji deadpanned. “So where have I been, all this time? What am I supposed to tell my long-lost aunt?”

“The truth,” the Autobot answered, “within reason. You’ve been with friends of your parents – people they trusted to take care of you, in case of an emergency. But those friends have found their circumstances changed…”

“… by giant white wolves, killer space dragons and cyborg beasts…”

“… _meaning_ you need a new place to stay.” His avatar reached out and patted the boy’s shoulder. “It’ll be fine.”

Koji pulled away and slid across to the far side of the seat. He propped his face against the window, breathing steam onto the glass. “Yeah. Right.”

Only a few cars were parked in front of the truck stop. Most were grimy junkers belonging to night shift workers and drifters. One stood out from the rest – a midnight-black Pontiac Trans Am, emblazoned with orange flames down either side. It caught Magnus’ attention immediately, and Koji’s a second later. As the gargantuan car carrier approached, the Trans Am’s driver stepped out onto the fractured concrete. Her features left no doubt as to her genetic heritage.

“Aunt Sally,” Koji said.

Sally Jones was short and lithe. Her red hair was cut boyishly short on the top of her head; the barest trace of make-up somehow managed to accent her large blue eyes. Despite the cold, she wore cotton pants and a pink, short-sleeved shirt; her only concession to the weather was a white sweater tied around her shoulders. Sally toyed with an umbrella for a moment, thought better of it, and dashed instead under the veranda of the all-night diner.

Magnus pulled into one of the extra-long truck parking bays and shut off his engine. Both his avatar and Koji shuddered as the big diesel wound down. “Time to go,” the holo-man smiled.

Koji sniffed and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Realisation had dawned; there really was no going back. “Thanks,” the boy said, his voice thick and strained. “For looking after me, I mean. I’m… sorry… I wasn’t a better guest.”

Suddenly, he sprang forward and hugged the avatar. Magnus increased the projection’s density, ensuring the boy did not pass through it. He willed it to return the embrace, wishing he could comfort Koji properly. _He’s just a child,_ he told himself, _not a soldier. I only wish there were more room for forgiveness in our lives. But, with the Terrorcons on the loose, there simply is not._

Magnus let Koji end the hug, and watched as he opened the cab door and dropped onto the rain-slicked concrete. The avatar followed, pretending to shelter itself from the rain. Inwardly, Magnus furrowed his brow in concentration. He had to keep close control of the holo-man – there was no room, now, for a mistake. Sally had no concept of her brother’s other-worldly allegiances, and he aimed to keep it that way.

“Mr Morse, wasn’t it?” the young woman said brightly, offering her hand.

“It is,” Magnus replied, slipping into character. “Thanks for helping out at such short notice. My… wife… and I really appreciate it.”

Sally winked knowingly. “It must be some really urgent business if it’s going to take both of you out of town for six months.”

Koji shot the avatar a withering look. Magnus shrugged. “Urgent and all-consuming,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. “My wife doesn’t like to be alone, so she often travels with me. Wasn’t a problem until Kick… _Joshua_ … and Misha asked us to take care of the little man.”

“Hi,” the sodden boy said glumly, giving a feeble wave.

Sally put her hands on her hips and looked down at her nephew. Then she squatted, locking eyes with him. “Hey, kiddo,” she said softly. “I know this is rough, meeting a relative for the first time, but I promise to look after you. Stick with me and you’ll be fine. Okay?”

Koji nodded, but said nothing.

Magnus feigned a look at his avatar’s illusionary watch. “Time to move,” he said, struggling to keep the timbre out of his voice. “Koji has my cell phone number – I’ve told him to call any time. I’ll drop in, too, when I’m back in town.”

“Sounds great,” Sally replied, standing back up and shaking his hand again.

The holo-man smiled at Koji as it walked away. The Autobot, meanwhile, kept every sensor on full alert. Fortunately, nothing happened. Sally’s car didn’t unfold into a Mini-con assassin; no Terrorcons dropped from the skies with their claws bared. The most he picked up was Sally’s pained explanation for the high-powered vehicle – “It’s my partner’s car, not mine” – and the sound of car doors closing.

He watched them drive away before starting his own engine. Disappointment mingled with the relief in his processor for a moment, until he pushed them aside. There’d be time for such feelings later. Magnus still had one more traitor with whom he needed to deal. And, unlike Koji, this one had _teeth_.

\-----

Windshear saw them first; the Mini-con immediately changed direction and plummeted toward them. The arrowhead-shaped jet was tipped with a ruby-crystal nosecone, easily capable of slicing through force fields… or Transformer armour.

The little robot never got close enough. Smokescreen passed underneath and fired a plume of soot at Windshear. True to its function, the “smart smoke” wreathed around the hapless mech and held fast, obscuring his vision.

Windshear yelped and started to transform, but it was too late – Jazz picked him out of the sky with a single shot. The Mini-con’s left wing exploded thunderously – he’d been carrying a larger than normal payload, it seemed – attracting the attention of his much bigger… and more dangerous… colleagues.

Smokescreen’s missiles cleaved the distance between the mechs and slammed into Crumplezone. The thick-set racer barely noticed. His toothy jaw worked noiselessly for a moment as a crimson glow spread across his chassis. Massive turbines swung up from his back and onto his shoulders, loosing two emerald warheads. Smokescreen danced out of the way of the first but could not avoid the second – it tore up the decking beneath his feet and catapulted him toward the ocean.

Thinking fast, Jazz retracted his right hand and replaced it with a winch and grappling hook. He cast the line out until it snagged his partner’s flailing legs and then _heaved,_ pulling the heavy robot back in as he passed the edge of the rig. Jazz dug in his heels to support the line and then threw his shield over his head. He was just in time to deflect a volley of shots, fired by a leering Wheeljack.

“Unfamiliar Autobots,” the psychotic killer crooned. “How delightful. I do so love taking in all the new faces to join the team. It’s such an Autobot thing, really… filling the ranks with young, eager faces rather than looking out for those who’ve already joined. One might think it was Optimus’ staffing policy or something.”

Jazz knew all the stories about Wheeljack. He’d been one of the first to sign up for the Autobot cause, back when the war was still new. Sadly, he’d been shot and almost killed during the battle of the Imperial Amphitheatre – through a quirk of fate, his attacker had been none other than a time-displaced Silverstreak. The gunner had acted to ensure the safety of the time-stream, but that mattered not to Wheeljack. He’d worn his scarred Autobot badge like a warning, right above his Decepticon insignia, and spent 8.1 million years slaughtering his former comrades.

During the quest for the Planet Keys, Wheeljack had met his larger accomplice. Crumplezone was a barely-intelligent Transformer from Speedia – the super-fast racing planet. Dumb and trusting, the hulking brute had been manipulated first by a grafter named Ransack, and then by the dark-armoured serial killer. That was until a decade ago, when Nightbeat’s team had captured and imprisoned them. _Nice of Checkpoint to tell us they’d busted out,_ he thought angrily.

He braced as Wheeljack pounded more artillery into his shell. Smokescreen’s dead weight, dangling hundreds of feet above the ocean, wasn’t helping matters. Nor was the wind and rain of the storm. “So you’re Terrorcons now?” he grunted. “Kinda lacking in the bare skin department, ain’tcha?”

Wheeljack’s optics widened madly. “Oh, no flesh for us, newbie,” he hissed. “Predacon keeps us in Energon, but that’s as far as our loyalties go. We’ve got an open remit, here on this grungy little world you love so much… go wherever we like, whenever we like, and raze whatever we find to the ground.”

Crumplezone turned toward Jazz. “Three… double… yews,” he slurred.

“Good boy,” Wheeljack squealed, delighted with his pet. He patted the monosyllabic giant on the head. “You deserve a treat.” He sniggered and pointed at the former Spychangers. “Crush them.”

The leviathan advanced. His massive footfalls shook the oil rig, further loosening Jazz’s tenuous foot hold. Smokescreen’s bulk dragged against his one free arm and pulled the cable dangerously taught. Despite his best efforts, Jazz started sliding, through the drizzle and leaking oil, toward the rig’s edge; his momentum assisted by another barrage from Wheeljack.

“Uh, Jazzwise,” Smokescreen called over the edge. “I’m kind of falling.”

“Then do what you always do,” Jazz barked, struck by inspiration, “And use it!”

There was a _woosh_ and, a moment later, a tremendous explosion. Smokescreen had emptied his shoulder-mounted missile racks into the underside of the rig… but not without first targeting the Terrorcons. Wheeljack and Crumplezone were tossed hundreds of feet into the air before slamming down, hard, onto another section of the deck.

Thankful for yet another distraction, Jazz transformed to vehicle mode. A W16 engine, seven clutches and 10 radiators made light work of hauling his twin back onto somewhat safe land. Smokescreen didn’t stop for pleasantries; he scanned immediately for their foes. Jazz transformed and did the same.

Nothing.

“This sensor invisibility crap really needs to stop,” Smokescreen snarled.

Another explosion tore through a distant tower. Fumes and clouds of gas obscured the scene, mucking in with the rain and ocean spray. Humans ran in all directions; their hiding place destroyed. Jazz heard one speaking in a thick Scottish accent about “the metal beasties” – obviously the source of Magnus’ garbled transmission. It had been a lucky turn of phrase… had the man not chosen those words, Magnus may have missed the reference to what he thought were bestial Transformers.

The spy reconsidered that. Wheeljack and Crumplezone were beasts all right… they just didn’t have animal alt modes.

More explosions sounded, adding to the chaos. Jazz and Smokescreen twisted in all directions, trying to track the bad guys through the confusion. It was no good. Their unique invisibility, coupled with the general mess the place was in, was as good as – no, _better_ – than a stealth beam coating.

“Hear that?” Smokescreen said, holding up a hand. “Engines.”

Jazz strained his audio and picked it up; the sound of two powerful engines. It was accompanied by the noise of tyres squealing on steel… signs of high-powered cars taking hair-pin turns at great speed. The sounds would draw ominously close, then peter out again – he realised they were being penned in. Circled. Toyed with.

“I ain’t got no clue where they are,” Jazz rasped, swinging his flame thrower in all directions.

“Trouble is, they know right where _we_ are,” Smokescreen muttered. “Dead slagging centre of their crosshairs.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Co-written by Falcadore.

Smokescreen raised his arms, as if he were surrendering. Nothing could have been further from the truth – their pathways cleared, the two spines rising from his back swung down and around, until they were pointing out in front of him.

Were he in vehicle mode, the spines would have formed the running boards of the diversionary tactician’s Bugatti disguise. Their tips would have finished just behind his front wheels, slotting in under his doors and alongside a pair of vents. From those slots would gush the “smart smoke” from which he took his new name.

Without the vents, the smoke erupted from the tips of the spines… and went _everywhere._

“Get behind me,” Smokescreen barked, gripping a spine with each hand. Jazz didn’t hesitate – he darted back around his twin. He watched as Smokescreen sprayed thick, oily clouds in all directions, blanketing the area with smog. It was a denser soup than the one he’d generated as they’d climbed the rig; even more cloying than the burst that had disabled Windshear. This was the gaseous equivalent of a wall.

Even so, Jazz knew it had little hope of protecting them from the Terrorcons.

“It’s not gonna cling to ‘em, is it?” he asked, gripping his flame thrower tightly.

“Nope,” Smokescreen growled. “It sticks to anything without an Autobrand _provided_ it can find said ‘thing’. And the nanites are just as clueless as we are, right now.”

Jazz cursed colourfully. Until now, the Terrorcons’ sensor invisibility hadn’t been _that_ much of a problem. This little guerrilla campaign had been sparked by a full-scale incursion, in a civilised area. The battles since then had been face-to-face confrontations… the Autobots had experienced more problems with their foes’ seeming immortality than their peek-a-boo hi-jinks. Fighting a reactive war was one thing; fighting a reactive war against the unseen was suicide.

“It’s not suicide,” Smokescreen grunted, inadvertently reading Jazz’s thoughts, “when someone else kills you.”

“That,” Jazz added darkly, “and suicide is painless. Or so the song says.”

Engine noise filled his aural cavities. Somewhere, beyond the smoke, lurked Wheeljack and Crumplezone. Though their tallies hadn’t been too impressive of late, the duo were remorseless killers who left neither survivors nor remnants. Out there, too, were hundreds of innocent humans. The oil rig workers weren’t even a target, per se; Wheeljack and his crony were just out to cause mayhem.

“Remember the old days,” Jazz asked, trying to keep his voice light, “when the ‘cons were after Energon, and you knew how to handle ‘em?”

“Ah, memories,” Smokescreen sighed. “Now shut up; I’m concentrating.”

“On what?”

“Trying to figure out where they are!”

Jazz glanced at his unwelcome twin; the red-and-blue Bugatti was swivelling his head in all directions. His brow, beneath his targeting visor, was furrowed in concentration. He had released the spines, and they had returned to their usual place on his back, but he had yet to raise his gun or reload his missile launchers. Wheeljack out there somewhere, to his left. Crumplezone on the right. In the middle, the jerk with the turn-table brain, peering as if he could see through his own gas.

Jazz took a step. Obediently, the somewhat-sentient smoke dissipated to give him passage. He stepped back, hurriedly, and the darkness thickened up once more. The smart-smoke couldn’t help them much, true, but it was cover at the very least. He wasn’t about to disturb it… although it had suddenly become a prison for them.

“My life’s a frelling 1970s song,” he groaned.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” mocked a sing-song voice. The smoke wall eddied with sudden wind; the gust was accompanied by the snarl of a powerful engine. “Of course, we _know_ where you are,” Wheeljack continued, howling over the noise of his own torque, “so you’re only delaying the inevitable… and our fun.”

Jazz lifted his weapon and snapped off a barrage. The plumes of fire stabbed through the inky blackness and vanished. To his horror, Jazz heard a human scream in pain and Wheeljack laugh with delight.

“Primus forgive me,” he retched, dropping to his knees.

“What the frack are you doing?” Smokescreen was by his side in less than a second, his trance broken. “You can’t see a damn thing out there, idiot! In case you’ve forgotten, we’re here to _save_ the locals, not accidentally barbeque them!”

He grabbed Jazz roughly by the shoulder. Something inside the spy snapped. He spun around and drove his fist into Smokescreen’s knee, bringing his colleague down with a grunt of surprise. The other Autobot was too good a fighter to be put off for long; as he fell, he brought his elbow down toward the top of Jazz’s head.

The black Bugatti dodged expertly, throwing his right arm out and clothes-lining Smokescreen across the mid-section. He followed that up with a left-handed jab to the back of his friend’s head, driving him face-first into the steel plating of the oil rig.

“Don’t touch me, mech,” he raged, standing up and cocking his fists for more. “I’m a mess you up, understand? Don’t be needing none ‘o yo slag right now, proto!”

Smokescreen stayed on his knees and cradled his dented helm. “Just _unclench_ , for Primus’ sake! All right? Think about what you’re doing for a second!” He coughed a mouthful of oil out onto the decking. “I know you cracked under the pressure, Crosswise, but this is no time for a relapse.”

“What’chu babbling about?”

He glared down at his twin, optics alive with fury. Smokescreen met his gaze evenly, almost dispassionately. “Of course you cracked up, ‘Jazz’. You’re in deep cover, right now – taking on a role, performing, to better deal with the stresses around you. But you haven’t inserted yourself into a hostile Decepticon outpost… you’ve infiltrated the normal rank-and-file of the Autobot army.”

Righteous indignation bubbled inside Jazz.

“You’re _pretending,_ coming up with a plausible cover story to obscure your true nature. Difference is, this time you want to be ‘Jazz’ so badly – to be so far away from the grim-n-gritty of black ops – that you’ve lost all touch with Crosswise. And that’s fine, mech. I’m not here to tell you how to live your life. Except for right now.”

He felt it creeping, like a living thing, up his fuel lines and into his fingertips.

“Jazz can’t help me here. Jazz can’t survive what we’re about to face. He doesn’t have the coping mechanisms, the skills, the book of dirty tricks to outsmart two serial killers who’ve only once left a survivor. Jazz panics and fires into the crowd, possibly killing the people we both want to save. Crosswise _doesn’t._ ”

His firsts curled tighter; his spine straightened and his leg servos tensed with nervous energy. He was going to…

… calm the frell down, because Smokescreen was _right._

What kind of a fool was he, firing into the darkness? It was worse than a rookie mistake, because even a rookie Autobot had regard for innocent life. His was a sin of panic and, worse, of self-deception.

“Jazz?”

He didn’t totally agree with Smokescreen, of course – he’d heard enough of his colleague’s armchair psychoanalysis, these past few hours, to sift it for assertions both correct and way-out wrong. Jazz wasn’t playing a role, he was _trying to change._ But, in doing so, he was denying skills essential to the RIDs battle against the Terrorcons… abilities vital to his own chances of survival, right now.

“Mech, you on-line?”

The key was finding a way to merge the dark, crunching bass lines of Crosswise with the more positive, healthier beats of Jazz. So many tunes had been spun, trying to change, that he’d slipped past the mark and fallen into denial. He’d lost himself in the music and deafened himself to the background noise.

_Background noise._

A sliver of memory stabbed him in the processor, eliciting a yelp and a smile.

“Helloooo?”

“Cool out, Smokey, I’m here,” Jazz quipped, letting his optics refocus on the world around him. “An’ I got me an idea that just might work.”

\-----

“I suppose,” Sally said thoughtfully, “you’ve got no idea how long you’ll be staying with us, do you?”

Koji glared at her. What kind of bubble-heading thing to say was that? His parents had been _kidnapped,_ of _course_ he didn’t know when they’d be coming home! Okay, so the Autobots had somehow managed to hide the identities of the kidnappers, but the world still knew Misha and Joshua Jones were missing!

Sally caught the look and blushed. “Dumb thing to say, wasn’t it?” she grimaced. “Sorry. I’m just so… put off… by all of this, like you probably are. I mean, I hadn’t spoken to your Dad in years. Hearing he’d been kidnapped like that, and poor Misha too, was such a shock.”

A shock? Koji decided he didn’t like this woman, genetic relative or no. He savoured the sudden mental image of her having to face Divebomb, or Battle Ravage, as he’d done on that grisly day. _Then you’d know what a shock was, lady._

He decided to change the topic. “Why did you and Dad stop talking, _Aunty_ Sally?” he asked, layering the question with as much venom as he could muster.

“It’s not like we were ever close,” she shrugged, turning the Trans Am toward a suburban area. “Our parents split up when we were kids. I stayed with Mum, your Dad stayed with our father. We saw each other during custody visits and stuff, but it was always more like we were cousins than brother and sister. When he got older, and more argumentative, it was just easier to… well, to lose touch.”

 _Yeah, you’re a keeper, all right,_ Koji thought.

They pulled into the driveway of a modest two-storey house. _The very picture of suburbia,_ he thought wearily. _Likely, some dull and dusty husband waiting inside… an accountant who likes to rev up his big ol’ muscle car on the weekends and flounce around the beach or something._

He sighed audibly. _This is purgatory. For my sins against the Autobots, I’ve been condemned to upper-middle class hell._

Double garage doors opened automatically; Sally drove the Trans Am inside. Koji stared, bored, out the window. There was no second car, as he’d expected, but rather a motorbike. More accurately, it was an old-style Harley Davidson chopper, with plush leather saddle and swooping handlebars. Its bodywork was decked out in fiery orange – complete with painted flames – while its chrome was polished to a mirror finish. Little as he knew about bikes, Koji could tell it was a top-class machine.

“Again, not mine,” Sally said wearily, noticing his stare. “That’s my partner’s, too.”

She killed the engine, and the Trans Am fell silent. An interior door opened and a shadowy figure stepped into the garage. It took Koji a moment to realise at what… who… he was looking.

Sally slipped out of the car, walked up to the slightly older woman and gave her a loving kiss on the lips. The woman returned the peck and wrapped her arms around Sally’s lithe form. The newcomer was a brunette, her hair cut in a bob, and she was dressed in a very smart shirt and cargo pants combination.

“Alexis,” Sally said to the woman, “this is my long-lost nephew, Koji.”

The boy blinked.

“Oh,” he said at last. “Right. _Partner._ ”

He got out, slamming the Trans Am’s door behind him. Koji noticed, to his satisfaction, that Alexis winced at the impact. Silently congratulating himself on making the first move, he wandered across to her with his hands in his pockets.

“Nice rides,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

Alexis smiled – Koji was taken aback by the intensity of the expression. “I like to have fun when I drive,” she said. There was an oddly feral gleam in her eye. “If you’ve got the right attitude, the road is a playpen and the cars are just toys.”

\-----

“Boomers.”

Jazz let the word roll around, in his mouth, like an Energon goodie.

“Boomers?”

Smokescreen echoed the sound with far less understanding.

The black Bugatti reflected, for a moment, on their shared history. Back in the day, when they were known as Crosswise and Wars, the duo had been anything but close. Wars had prided himself on being friends with everyone – the go-to mech – except the brass. That was the secret of his allure to the other troops… they could talk to him, share with him, the secrets that Jazz and other black ops officers should never know.

Their relationship, as a result, was strictly commander/subordinate – save and except, of course, for Wars’ pranks. Now renamed, themed in body form rather than duty, they had to work as partners – equals – under the command of another. _That’s gotta be part of the problem here,_ Jazz thought, _I’ve been pulling rank I ain’t got no longer; he’s been pushing boundaries that got rubbed out years back. We both gots to chill, and then gel, if we’re gonna live._

“Boomers,” Jazz said again. “Trust me, and follow my lead.”

Smokescreen wrinkled his nose.

“Not like that, player,” Jazz admonished. “There ain’t no chain of command ‘tween us no more. I’m _askin’_ you to follow my lead, to work with me. Dig?”

The diversionary tactician raised a wary eyebrow ridge, but nodded. That was agreement enough for Jazz – he transformed, flattened his pedal to the floor and shot out through the “smart-smoke” wall like a missile.

“Keep th’ channel open,” he called through the inter-Autobot radio, “an’ listen good. ‘Boomer’ is the nickname for a type o’ human vessel – a submarine. They’re like floating missile silos, an’ they could lurk off the coast o’ an inhabited area, without nobody knowing, all ready to rain death over the populace at a moment’s notice.”

Pushing his speed as high as he dared, Jazz cut a zig-zag path through the wreckage of the oil rig. Humans darted out of his way, never realising they were just as safe standing still. He caught sight of one man nursing a slight burn to his arm – likely the poor guy he’d almost slagged, earlier. _He’s all right – good. That makes what comes next even easier._

“If you RIDs have a boomer around here,” Smokescreen replied, “then now’s the time to call it in for a surgical strike.” The red-and-blue Bugatti was right behind him, matching his every hairpin turn.

“Ain’t like that,” Jazz said, “it’s better.” His audio sensors were ringing with noise – screams, explosions, fires. And engines. He could no longer discern his motor’s sound from that of Smokescreen, or of Crumplezone and Wheeljack.

He yelled, with fright and surprise, as something slammed into his side. Before he could take proper note it was gone again – a glimmer of retreating neon green, however, made his attacker’s identity obvious. For a moment he was, once again, scared. There was so much sensory overload, so much static, that he couldn’t even pick out a Terrorcon at 10 paces. Didn’t that mean their deaths were inevitable?

 _No,_ he told himself furiously. _You do the impossible, Jazz, and you look good doing it. That’s what you’ve always been about, and will be about again._

Jazz allowed himself to drift to the very edge of the oil rig. His left-hand wheels were squealing; their treads barely finding purchase on the rapidly diminishing surface. Smokescreen trailed him, unquestioningly, following the very same imaginary racing line. _Whatever else is going on,_ Jazz thought, _I got the dude’s trust. Better make sure I don’t slag all over it._

“The thing about boomers is they’re the holy grail for sonar operators,” Jazz said, re-opening the communications channel. “You know sonar, right? Sound goes out, bounces off an object, comes back and gives you a reading.”

“Ancient tech,” Smokescreen said dryly. “Humans still use it?”

“Best thing in the water,” Jazz said. “But the boomers, they’re tricky. Hardest of all subs to detect – their stealth tech is just that _damn_ good. Takes time to find ‘em and, when they’re locking onto a target, that’s time you don’t got to waste.”

He activated the jerry-rigged sensor package and cranked its inputs up. _Way_ up, well past the recommendations Downshift had given. Crackling white noise assaulted him from all sides, as did swirls of heat-signature colour and the _pings_ of numerous life-form readings. Every little scrap of information, from the surrounding area, that wasn’t a Terrorcon.

“One day, some clued-up individual found himself a way of locking onto a boomer, first time every time. Turns out the sub’s stealth tech is _too_ good, makes ‘em too quiet in the water. You know how you can pick out a cloud, in the night sky, by lookin’ where the stars aren’t? Best way to find yourself a boomer…”

Jazz locked his brakes and hauled his steering wheel to the right. Smokescreen did the same, coming to a screeching halt just inches from his rear bumper. A split-second later, a massive green-on-green trike hurtled past Jazz’s windshield and rocketed off the oil rig, coming to an inglorious splashdown in the ocean hundreds of metres away.

“… is to look for silence where there should be sound. You find the hole in the water, and you find the boomer.”

“Oh,” Smokescreen said with conviction. “I get it!”

“Then shut up and read my telemetry,” Jazz barked. He transformed and, at the same time, re-routed the sensor package’s feed to his visor. He then beamed that data across to Smokescreen, and started scanning the area.

It took no time at all, once you knew what to look for. It was like a jigsaw puzzle in reverse. In the middle of all the colour and noise… the sound and the fury… the light show and the heavy metal music… there was a small, dark, Wheeljack-shaped blob.

“Pucker up, sucker,” Jazz whooped, loosing a barrage of warheads from his shoulder-mounted missile launchers. “I’m playing _Where’s Wheeljack_ to win, baby!”

“Bet on black or bet on red,” Smokescreen cried, adding his voice – and munitions – to the chorus. “Either way, you’re losing to the house tonight!”

With dead-on accuracy, the missiles detonated against their target. Wheeljack’s anguished scream appeared, on their shared read-out, as a comet-like swathe of blue light, arcing up toward the sky. More missiles prompted more blue outbursts, coupled with red sparks of broken, twisted metal and exploding on-board weapons.

“Looks like sensor invisibility don’t extend to the bits that fall off,” Jazz quipped.

“Including limbs,” Smokescreen added with mock distaste. “Ugh.”

The black blob, hundreds of metres away from them, folded and shrank. Still venting blue acrimony, it hurtled toward their position and streaked past, headed for the water. At long last, both mechs had a proper look at their tormentor – a pock-marked, dented, damaged ebony racing car trailing smoke and fire. Wheeljack, like Crumplezone before him, hit the water with an undignified splash and sank out of sight, likely limping back for the Global Space Bridge.

Smokescreen moved to follow, then thought better of it. “You’re going to tell me we need to put out the fires here, first,” he said to Jazz.

The black Bugatti nodded. “It would be nice, don’tcha think?”

His twin’s face warped with a wry smile. “Test run, get ‘em next time and all that?”

“Good as done,” Jazz gave a thumbs up. “Let’s take the win for now an’ go save some lives… partner.”

\-----

Ultra Magnus increased the tint on his sensors – the better to cope with the dazzling sunrise – as he approached the Earthforce base. He plunged into the faux rock wall; feeling the familiar jar in his struts as they were temporally displaced. His massive bulk slipped, gossamer-like, through the atoms of the mountain itself and came to rest inside the time-altered clearing that served as the Autobot staging ground.

 _Staging ground._ Magnus had spent much of the drive back contemplating the shifting dynamics of the new Terran war. It had been, so far, an uncomfortable series of messy hit-and-run encounters with no clear winner. Which was not to say there were no losers – Magnus’ record, as a commander, had been tarnished by his team’s inability to decisively take out Predacon’s cult.

Tactical change, he decided, was necessary. Decisive action; the kind that would be feared and understood by an animalistic, cunning foe. And the first step was to…

“Have you a moment?”

Startled by the deep, resonant voice, Magnus transformed. He looked around – two glowing yellow eyes stood out in the half-light of dawn. Beneath them, sheathed by ivory lips, was a set of luminous golden fangs.

Snarl padded out into full view and circled Magnus. The white wolf of Animatros was in his lupine alternate mode. The RID commander took careful note of his body language. The canine’s ears were flat and his tail drooped behind him – even his steps were lethargic and leaden. He was, to all appearances, giving deference to a superior.

“I knew we would speak upon your return,” Snarl continued softly, “but I thought it best we discuss my… recent actions… outside the confines of the base.” He seemed to shiver at the thought of being inside Fortress Maximus. “Your troops are beginning to rouse from their slumber and throw off their injuries; it is my belief our conversation is for neither their prying eyes nor ears.”

Magnus said nothing.

“I will take your silence as assent,” Snarl said awkwardly. His genuflection may not have been sincere; his discomfort, however, was. “You are all too aware of the differences between our cultures, Ultra Magnus, having now met the fallen god of Animatros. Likely, you have some… unique insight… into the forces that moulded my world, and birthed me. Insight held by not even Grimlock, I would wager.”

Magnus folded his arms and cocked his head to one side.

“It is my hope that newfound understanding will colour your reaction to my words,” the wolf pressed on, a hint of pleading underlying his tone. “Beasts are products of both nature and nurture, Ultra Magnus – we lack the programming of our mechanical brethren, of beings such as yourself. Might, power, survival… these are the qualities we come to value, above all others. There is nobility in that, I have long held, yet I have come to realise, of late, there is also selfishness. It is this latter quality… the dark side, if you will, of savagery… within myself that I now seek to conquer.”

He looked to the sky. “Too many sunrises have I observed while caring solely for myself,” he said wistfully. “I sought the cause of freedom, _my_ freedom, to the exclusion of all other beings. Such is not the way to live… it lacks honour. I have come to realise this, through our battle with Flame Convoy and my interactions with Junko and Franklin. I understand the shameful nature of my fleeing the base, attacking humans and confronting you. It is understanding that brings with it a pain that is all too acute and embarrassing.”

Snarl transformed, re-taking his bestial robot mode and standing, arms splayed wide, in front of Magnus. “Punishment is required, even necessary, for what I have done to the rest of my pack… the Autobot pack. All that I ask is that you, in determining my fate, be mindful of the changes that have occurred within me and, perhaps, look to make use of my talents in the battles to come. I know Predacon and his ways. Let me hunt with you, as a partner, once my penance is done. I am dedicated to your cause.”

Magnus stepped forward and drove his right fist into Snarl’s midsection. The uppercut caught the smaller Transformer completely by surprise. He rose up into the air, unwillingly riding a fist larger than his own head, and gasped out as the brute force crumpled armour plating and crippled delicate circuitry.

The uppercut completed its devastating arc and Snarl was thrown, up and away, toward the lake. He spun in the air and landed on his front, face-planting in the shallows. Drenched with mud and reeds, the wolf coughed and spluttered.

“You’re confined to quarters,” Magnus growled. He walked past Snarl and up the ramp to Fortress Maximus, refusing to spare the traitorous soldier a second glance.

\-----

“I think you understand my dilemma,” Ultra Magnus said.

He watched as Smokescreen – still dirty with the remnants of battle – nodded. “Your mechs don’t trust one another,” the gambler said calmly. “There’s friction and factions all over the place. Your boys lack the glue to stick together.”

“And right now,” Magnus agreed, “that’s a fatal flaw. I didn’t ask for you specifically, Wars… sorry, Smokescreen… but I would have, had the idea occurred to me.”

“You want me to weave my magic.”

“The Spychangers never realised you were something of a double agent. You’d listen to their problems, fears and doubts and keep a sharp optic out, in case they became unhinged. You’d funnel any necessary intel to myself or to Optimus. That way, we were able to keep the Spychangers in check, irrespective of how nasty their missions got, and ensure their mental health.”

“No CINS in the Spychangers,” Smokescreen said proudly.

“It’s not a pleasant task, informing on your own,” Magnus acknowledged. “Your gift is that you do it out of genuine concern – you’re not one for telling tales, you’re a mech who wants to help his friends stay healthy. Your gambling, your pranks, are a way of diverting attention from your altruistic nature.”

“I’m all about hiding in plain sight.”

“Will you do it again, here on Earth?” Magnus asked. “More accurately: _can_ you help me mould my force into a true team, so that we can unravel whatever it is Predacon is planning for this world?”

Smokescreen smiled happily, displaying a serenity and poise Magnus had not seen in any other Autobot. “I think I’ve already started,” he said, extending a hand to shake Magnus’ own. “Point me at a bunk and I’ll keep going.”

\-----

Jazz elbowed Armourhide; the mini-truck whistled, just below the audible range, to Rodimus. He and Scattorshot signalled back that all was well; Downshift, on the other side of the hallway, indicated the same.

They heard the door to Magnus’ chamber clang, followed by footsteps. The sound drew closer and, in seconds, Smokescreen was among his new comrades.

“Mechs and femmes, protos of all serial numbers,” Jazz said grandly. “May I present to you the granddaddy of gambling… the doyen of diversion… the head jester of the merry pranksters… the fog master himself, Smokescreen!”

The red-and-blue Bugatti beamed at his introduction; the rest of the RIDs burst into sarcastic applause. Smokescreen grimaced with mock embarrassment, causing the others to fall in around him and make their joking apologies.

Jazz felt good. They’d snatched another advantage out of Predacon’s claws, and experiments on the imprisoned Divebomb would quickly yield a proper, fully-realised sensor package. The team’s numbers had increased by one, and it was a “one” who could well and truly hold his own in a fight.

Moreover, Jazz felt – for the first time in a decade – like he knew his place in the group. He had skills to add beyond that of being a babysitter, or a culture vulture… his black-ops days may be far behind him, but the lessons learned in the darkness were equally applicable in the light.

“The mechs and I,” he said to Smokescreen, wading into the throng, “got together while you were talkin’ with the Big Bot, and we did up the door to your quarters.” He gestured down the hallway – a previously unused barracks now bore the Autobot logo and Smokescreen’s name, in both English and Cybertronian script. “We want you to be nice and rested up, from today’s fun, before you go runnin’ around with the Terrorcons again. Sound good?”

“Sounds _great,_ ” Smokescreen enthused, unable to conceal his enthusiasm. “It feels like my last hot oil bath was deca-cycles ago. You guys are too much.”

The RIDs wished him well and moved away. Everyone, including Smokescreen, headed off to their own chambers. Jazz noted, sadly, their still-present limps and stiffness. The CR chambers could only do so much to heal a wounded mech; time was required, now, for recuperation. Given a few days, the Autobots would be ready for their next challenge.

“What the frell? Aaargh!”

Smokescreen’s startled cry came right on time. Jazz turned, a grin already creeping across his face plate, knowing what he was about to see. His twin was buried, to the neck, in a writhing pile of neural chaff and sensor-dampening ribbon. The tangled mess had billowed out of his quarters the moment he’d thrown open the door – just as Jazz and the RIDs had planned and executed.

The Autobots devolved into fits of giggles and laughter. Rodimus was doubled over; Armourhide was on his knees and banging his fists on the floor. Scattorshot was leaning on Downshift for support, laughing even harder at the sight of the engineer’s rapidly-flashing head displays.

“We figured,” Jazz said, struggling through his own chuckling, “you deserved a welcome in keeping with your reputation!”

Smokescreen eyed them all darkly. “You lot are _dead,_ ” he growled, the smile on his face guaranteeing he was joking. “Especially you, Jazzwise.”

“Bring it on, little brother,” Jazz mocked, waving his arms to indicate his friends. “Just like last time, I’ve got me a posse.”


End file.
